


in the company of strangers

by Kyele



Series: a fighter by his trade [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Sexual Slavery, Slut Shaming, bad bdsm, good BDSM (different pairing), off-screen flogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Richelieu had always wanted to build. Rochefort wants to destroy. And nothing will give the Comte more pleasure than specifically destroying what Richelieu had built. France. Louis. And Treville.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the company of strangers

Louis welcomes Rochefort back from the mission to rescue de Foix as if it’s Rochefort who is his son, not the babe nestled in Anne’s arms. Treville, watching them, narrows his eyes suspiciously. Four years in a Spanish prison don’t seem to have done Rochefort much harm. There’s no signs of wastage or privation on Rochefort’s well-muscled frame. No new scars mar his tanned skin. Only his eyes seem to reflect a deep inner turmoil. Treville mislikes those eyes. The glitter in them has something of madness.

“I will serve your Majesty and my country faithfully,” Rochefort says. He bows to the King, his smile all subservience. Then he turns to face the Musketeers and all its gloating edge returns.

Treville rolls his eyes. Foolish, perhaps, but he can’t help it. Rochefort is a strutting peacock. If the court had never known any other ministry, perhaps Rochefort would impress. In the wake of Richelieu’s effortless command Rochefort shows as the charlatan he really is.

At first glance it’s tempting to dismiss Rochefort. But he’s the first man to climb atop the heap of bodies all striving to reach Richelieu’s vacated position. Several others have come close but been pulled under at the last minute. As the days had turned to weeks, it had begun to be suspicious. Surely an interim successor should at least have emerged, even if they themselves were later replaced by a better, stronger candidate. And yet the place of power remains vacant. As if it has been waiting for someone. As if it’s been waiting for Rochefort’s return.

The King doesn’t notice Treville’s slip. Rochefort does. After the formalities are over, Rochefort makes a point of pausing as he walks past Treville.

“You seem to find something amusing, Captain,” he murmurs.

Treville keeps his face and voice impassive. “Only a passing jest,” he says mildly.

Rochefort has enough wit to catch the jab. His eyes harden. “We shall see who laughs last,” he says ominously.

The Comte resumes his pace, walking away. Treville turns slightly to watch Rochefort go.

He has a bad feeling about this.

* * *

Treville goes back to the barracks after the King dismisses him. He finds himself simply standing by his window, looking out over the practice-yards. It’s been a long day. A long few days. A long several weeks, truth be told. A long couple of months. With a great deal going on beneath the surface that he’s had to deal with mostly alone.

He’s not used to being alone.

 _Nor would I wish you to be,_ Armand murmurs in his memory. Absently Treville’s fingers go to touch the leather cuff wrapped around his left wrist. It’s a standard piece of military gear, the wrist-guard, made of the usual brown leather and stamped with the King’s fleur-de-lis. No one questions Treville wearing it. He’s a soldier, after all. A military man. And perhaps Treville had not customarily worn the guard as part of his regular uniform. Perhaps Treville’s original guard lies forgotten in the corner of his wardrobe. Still, no one bats an eye. Certainly no one unbuckles the guard to see the cross stamped on the obverse, directly beneath the fleur-de-lis. And if anyone would did, who would find it surprising, for a Christian and a Catholic to wear the sign of the Church?

Armand had given it to him. Had wrapped it around his wrist on that final day, when everything had been in readiness for his supposed death. Had said: _Wear it, and I am with you._

The few short weeks of Richelieu’s apparent illness had been a whirlwind Treville can’t recall clearly, even now. First had come the weakness, the pain, the inability to eat. Doctors had been sent for and left, shaking their heads. Heart failure, they’d said. Nothing they could do. Richelieu had prepared for death. Then, in due time, he’d died. Leaving behind his worldly goods to be parceled out among his enemies. Leaving France, and his followers, to be divided up as well.

The rustling of a skirt alerts Treville to the fact that he’s not alone. He doesn’t turn from his contemplation of the view. His visitor is expected.

“So Rochefort takes Richelieu’s seat on the Council,” Milady de Winter drawls.

“We expected as much,” Treville says. “It doesn’t mean he’s our target.”

“Richelieu’s being too cautious.” There’s the sound of a chair being pulled out from a table, the swish of fabric as a woman sits down.

“Richelieu nearly _died_ ,” Treville snaps. He turns around and glowers at the woman in his quarters.

“He was in no actual danger,” Milady reminds Treville. “Unless you’re doubting Jussac’s loyalty now too?”

“Doubting our good fortune. If the poisoner had chosen to approach someone less loyal to Richelieu – ”

“Then we would have caught them when the taster started to get sick. You know Richelieu is careful.”

“Careful,” Treville grumbles. He tugs out the second chair and sits down heavily, shaking his head.

“We’re lucky the poisoner approached Jussac,” Milady scolds. “That let us pretend their plot actually worked. Imagine if the first we’d learned of it _had_ been when the taster got sick. We might not have realized it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill assassination plot until it was too late.”

Unwillingly, Treville shivers. Even forewarned by Jussac, who had naturally brought the entire thing to Richelieu as soon as he’d been approached by the poisoner’s agents, they had still nearly been too late. It had been a frantic scramble in those few short weeks. Pulling together an entire scheme in almost no time at all, working in the dark, with no idea of who their enemy truly is…

The little they do know is frightening enough. Richelieu’s life is threatened on a daily basis; plots against it are a dime a dozen. And if they’d dismissed the poisoning attempt as just another one of those dozen, the consequences wouldn’t have ended with Richelieu’s death.

Alerted by Jussac, Richelieu had moved to discover his enemy and destroy them. And run into an unexpected brick wall. This hadn’t been a spur of the moment attempt. The little Richelieu had been able to glean on his own is that this plot is deeply laid, long running, and deadly earnest. To learn more would have required expanding the circle of people who knew about the poisoning attempt. And the one thing Richelieu had been sure of is that that would lead to certain failure.

And so instead, they’d constructed an elaborate plot of their own. Jussac had accepted the poison and the payment, apparently transferring his service to the poisoner’s shadowy master. Milady had deliberately overreached herself with her attempt on Anne’s life and been cast off, repudiated by Richelieu, no longer his creature but a free agent who might act as she pleased. And Treville had shadowed the King everywhere, his Majesty’s loyal servant. Making sure Louis had seen exactly what they had wanted him to see. No more. And no less.

 _You have the most dangerous part,_ Richelieu had said to Treville. _The poisoner will believe Jussac is their creature and Milady is an independent actor, perhaps an opportunity. But you – those who come to succeed me will have to see you as a threat. Your loyalty to the King will make you a target for everyone who hopes to usurp the power of his throne. They will attack you. They will try to destroy you. And you will be unable to fight back. You must let them appear to succeed._

 _As you are letting them appear to succeed,_ Treville had pointed out. This had been very close to the end. Word of the Cardinal’s failing health had been spreading rapidly throughout the capitol.

_Shortly I will be free, able to move at will and work against my enemies. You won’t be so lucky. You’ll have to stay in Paris, day after day, as close to Louis’ side as you can, protecting him even as your position and abilities are stripped away day by day. Milady will preserve your life but she can’t preserve your dignity. Can you do it? Tell me the truth. If you can’t, it’s no shame._

_I can do anything at your command,_ Treville had sworn.

Armand had rewarded him very handsomely for that, Jean recalls, blushing at the memory.

“I see you’re keeping your spirits high,” Milady’s dry voice cuts into Treville’s musings. She watches him with amusement, no doubt guessing the direction of his thoughts.

Treville simply smiles slightly. He’s not ashamed of his relationship with Richelieu. Once he would have been, but Armand has long since taught him better. And Milady is no blushing virgin. She doesn’t turn a hair at the idea that two men might come together for love. Nor is she unfamiliar with the more complicated dynamics that her master and his servant explore.

“Why are you here?” Treville asks instead, bringing the conversation around to practical matters.

“Mainly to say goodbye. I need to get out of the capitol for a while. The slavers I’m to join will be passing through the King’s forest in the next few weeks. I’ll lie low in Évry until then.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Only to make sure you’ll be all right. Once I leave Paris I can’t return until I’ve received my pardon from the King. Jussac says it could be as much as a month before he can arrange for Louis’ abduction.”

Treville chuckles. “Do you really think I can’t take care of myself for a month?” he asks, amused.

Milady, oddly, remains serious. “I think Rochefort’s already identified you as his number one stumbling block in gaining control of Louis. He’ll go after you, hard.”

“It’s no more than we expected,” Treville dismisses. “Besides. Richelieu ordered you to keep me alive, not keep me comfortable. We _want_ Rochefort to come after me. Unless you think he’s going to work his way up to assassination within a month…?”

“No,” Milady says after a moment. “He’ll try pressure first. Bribery, perhaps. He’d rather attach you than have to replace you. He shouldn’t be desperate enough to have you killed before I can get back.”

“Then you have your answer,” Treville says.

“All right.” She stands from the small table, gathering up her blue cloak. Still, she hesitates.

“What is it?” Treville prompts. He trusts Milady’s instincts. They’re usually good.

Milady shakes her head. “I wish I knew,” she says in frustration. “I have a feeling – but it’s just a feeling.”

“Then there’s nothing to be done,” Treville says philosophically.

“Take care of yourself,” Milady says with unwonted emphasis. “If you _do_ find yourself in danger – ”

“I’ll send word.”

“Liar,” Milady says softly. “What did Richelieu do to engender such loyalty in you?”

Treville shrugs. “More or less the same thing he did for you,” he says. “Took a broken person and made them whole again.”

Milady sighs. “Yes. I suppose that’s a fair way of putting it.” She swings her cloak around her shoulders and fastens it at her throat. “Be careful,” she repeats.

Treville nods. He doesn’t turn around as she goes past him, through the door and down the stairs. Nor does he wonder how she can manage to walk freely through the Musketeers’ barracks with a price on her head and her face well known to several of his men. It’s her gift. He’s seen it too often to question it.

He goes back to his duties. For Richelieu, there’s nothing Treville can do now but wait. 

* * *

Rochefort takes to watching Treville in odd moments. Treville feels the Comte’s gaze prickling in the small hairs on the back of his neck when he’s walking behind the King, or at his side when the King is holding court. Rochefort’s gaze is not openly threatening. It’s more… considering. Weighing. Like he’s inspecting a bushel of apples at market.

Treville doesn’t mention it. Outwardly, he doesn’t react at all. The Comte will make his move in due time. But time is Treville’s ally, not Rochefort’s. Whether it had Rochefort behind Richelieu’s poisoning, or whether the Comte is merely an opportunist who’d sensed a void and rushed to fill it, is ultimately irrelevant. Every beat of Treville’s heart is one that brings Richelieu closer to his return.

The gentle pressure of his wrist-guard is a comfort at all times. The inward-facing cross stamp leaves its mark in Treville’s skin, faintly visible when the guard is removed, lingering for an hour or two before fading. Treville takes to wearing the guard to sleep. It feels like Armand’s grip, holding him down, holding him together, even as Armand himself is absent.

Three weeks after Rochefort had gained Richelieu’s seat on the council – two since Milady had left Paris, and at least two before she can reasonably be expected to return – Rochefort makes his move.

It starts innocuously. A summons is delivered by a Red Guard. Rochefort bids Treville attend him. It rankles, but as a member of the King’s council, Rochefort does technically have the right to compel the Captain’s presence. Treville folds the letter up, tells Athos where he’s going, and follows the guard back to the Palais-Cardinal.

Rochefort had barely waited until his seat on the Council had been warm before moving into Richelieu’s palace. Even the King had been shocked by Rochefort’s choice, but Rochefort had had logic on his side. The King had put Rochefort in charge of the Red Guards – and their barracks are located on the Palais-Cardinal’s grounds. The King had bid Rochefort take Richelieu’s seat on the council – and all Richelieu’s papers are in his old offices. Rochefort had spent four years in a Spanish prison and possesses neither household nor home. The Palais-Cardinal provides both, ready-made. And had not the King told Rochefort to choose any residence he liked?

Louis had permitted it. Intellectually, Treville knows it makes little difference. Rochefort’s position, and probably his life, will not survive Richelieu’s return. Indeed, it may even be for the best. There are secrets to the Palais-Cardinal that Rochefort knows nothing of. Secrets that Jussac, Milady and Treville will be able to use to their advantage if and when the time comes to move against Rochefort. But it doesn’t make Treville any happier to be summoned to Richelieu’s manor by his nominal successor.

Rochefort hasn’t stopped at just taking over Richelieu’s home. He’s moved directly into the Cardinal’s old rooms, taking over office and bedchamber alike. It makes Treville a little sick to walk these halls and see Rochefort’s trappings everywhere. The Comte has gone out of his way to put his stamp on his surroundings. Every room and corridor bears some mark of its new possessor.

When this is over, Treville is going to take great pleasure in setting everything to rights.

The servant escorting Treville is not one he knows. Rochefort has hired several new ones and mixed them in to serve as eyes-and-ears. This one is a young man, skinny and sallow-faced, who stares straight ahead and doesn’t respond to Treville’s demands to know where he’s being taken.

It doesn’t matter. Treville knows perfectly well. There’s only one thing at the end of this private hallway, and it isn’t Richelieu’s office.

The door to Richelieu’s private chambers is open. “Is that Captain Treville?” Rochefort inquires as their footfalls approach. He looks up from his study of a letter, held loosely in one hand. “Thank you, Miguel. That is all.”

The sallow-faced servant bows and retreats. Treville walks the last few steps on his own.

“Close the door, Captain. I don’t think we’ll want to be disturbed for a little while.”

Treville obeys. Then he turns back to Rochefort, ready to demand an explanation, when his voice dies in his throat.

“I was just going through our dear departed Cardinal’s things,” Rochefort says. He gestures to the wardrobe placed strategically in a corner of the room. Its doors are open, revealing an empty space where Richelieu’s robes had used to hang. Rochefort, apparently, has not yet gotten around to having his own clothes hung there.

The bottom of the wardrobe, Treville well knows, is false. The sliding panel has now been removed entirely. Below it are several drawers, which Rochefort has removed and stacked next to each other on a long chaise lounge. The drawers don’t contain state secrets. Richelieu had taken all of those with him when he’d left. The same goes for Richelieu’s private papers, for his correspondence, and for anything else that might have been damaging to France.

What’s in these drawers isn’t damaging to France. Only to Treville.

“Imagine my surprise when I found these,” Rochefort drawls, watching Treville’s face hungrily. “Now, I admit, I did think at first that our dear Cardinal might have used these things on himself. It was an interesting mental picture, I assure you. But not one that lasted long. Richelieu may have been a pervert, but he’s still a man. Unlike you, apparently, Captain Treville.”

Rochefort reaches out to one of the drawers and picks up the nearest toy. It’s a small plug, about as thick as two fingers. Short. But curved. When worn, Treville knows from experience, it presses against the wearer’s prostate relentlessly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Treville says for form’s sake. His voice is rough. He clears it, wondering if it makes a difference.

“Of course you do,” Rochefort dismisses. “Tell me. Has the Cardinal used all of these on you at one point or another? Or was he saving any for a special occasion? I’d dearly love to be the first to break a few of these in.”

His fingers caress the handle of a heavy tawse. Treville swallows.

“I thought you said you weren’t a pervert,” he tries.

“No more I am,” Rochefort says, amused. “What I am is an opportunist. And what I see here before me is quite the opportunity.”

“I don’t understand,” Treville says. The sinking feeling in his stomach belies this. He’s very much afraid that he does.

“Tell me, what would happen if I took what I now know to the King?” Rochefort inquires. “How would dear Louis feel if he learned that his precious Musketeers’ Captain enjoyed being the plaything of greater men – and that his beloved Cardinal Richelieu had enjoyed doing the playing?”

Treville doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The question had been entirely rhetorical. They both know that Treville’s being hanged for sodomy would only be the beginning of the consequences.

Instead Treville says, “You have no proof.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

“These… objects… hardly count. I have no idea why the Cardinal might have them, or why you’ve decided to share this knowledge with me – ”

Rochefort moves fast as a striking snake. Treville still sees it coming. He’s never been particularly fast himself, so he’s learned a dozen tricks for dealing with faster opponents. But this room triggers a different set of instincts. For ten years this room has been a sanctuary for a side of Treville’s personality he can’t allow out anywhere else. Armand had known how to coax Jean out of his shell. And how to lay down rules to ensure that Jean stays out.

When he’s in this room, Jean is not allowed to dodge. He’s not allowed to hide from what he wants or needs. He’s not allowed to attempt to escape.

Those rules hadn’t been constricting when Armand had been the one enforcing them. Armand knows how to read Jean, how to make sure he’s truly not being pushed too far, how to make sure Jean is comfortable and at peace. After rebuilding Jean from the ground up, taking him out of the ashes of the ruin he’d been, Armand knows everything there is to know about him. And it’s trained Jean into an attitude of deepest, unconscious trust when he’s within these four walls.

Treville freezes out of sheer habit. A moment later he starts moving, rational mind overriding his instincts, but it’s too late by then. By then Rochefort has slammed him against a wall, hand around his throat, and is hissing furious words in his ear.

“Sluts shouldn’t speak in the presence of their betters unless they’re bid,” Rochefort drawls. “Nor should they attempt to deny what they really are. I know all about you and your precious Cardinal. I know what you really are. I know what you really need. The Cardinal used to give it to you, didn’t he? You must have been quite deprived without him. No wonder you’ve been stumbling through your duties so poorly.”

Treville doesn’t attempt to speak. He only glares his defiance. The pressure of Rochefort’s hand on his throat is sending traitorous signals through his body. Rochefort’s mere presence has Treville on edge, ready for a fight. There’s no doubt in his mind or instincts that Rochefort is his enemy. But the familiar room, and the hand on this throat, so like the comforting pressure of Armand’s collar, all conspire to send his senses into a whirl.

A thought darts through his mind, and Treville looks back over at the drawers laid out on the lounge. In the one that had used to be on top, there’s a conspicuously empty space right in the center. Armand has taken Jean’s collar with him.

Treville’s knees weaken with relief. The other objects are generic sex toys, of the sort that anyone might buy if they have the right sort of knowledge and the right sort of contacts. And the right sort of money, of course. The collar had been different. Special. Commissioned by the Cardinal at the onset of their relationship, fashioned for Jean’s throat particularly. They hadn’t done anything so foolish has having a name pressed into the leather. But it had been personal. Treville is glad to see that it hasn’t been left behind to be exposed to Rochefort’s callous gaze.

“Distracted, slut?” Rochefort purrs into his ear. Treville jerks his gaze back to meet the Comte’s, but too late. The Comte is smiling triumphantly. “The truth will out, I suppose.”

He lets go abruptly and steps back. In an instant they’re two gentlemen again having a civil conversation.

“I could expose you to Louis with nothing more than an order,” Rochefort sneers. “But I don’t need to. I have all the proof I need here.”

Rochefort holds something out to Treville. It’s the papers he’d been reading when Treville had entered the room. Treville had mistaken them for a personal letter.

They’re not.

Treville takes the papers with a shaking hand. He looks through them only briefly. He already knows what he’s holding. It’s all the proof Rochefort needs to destroy him. And quite probably Richelieu through him. Even as the dominant partner, the cloud of a homosexual relationship would quite thoroughly destroy any chance Richelieu has of returning to power in France.

“How did you get these?” Treville asks hoarsely.

“That would be telling,” Rochefort says, taking the papers back. He folds them up neatly and tucks them back into his doublet.

“Those were copies, of course,” Rochefort adds.

Treville nods numbly. He’d recognized as much.

“The originals?” he asks, for form’s sake.

“Safe. As are several other copies, in the hands of various… associates. I’m well aware that you’re a military man, Captain. Violence is what you know. In the bedroom as well as out of it, it seems. But lest you think you can solve this particular problem with violence, you should know: in the event of my death, for any reason at all, these papers will be released to the throne.”

“What if you die of a heart attack?” Treville demands, numb still with horror.

Rochefort shrugs elegantly. “Then you’d better start heading for the border,” he says carelessly. “They care less about such things in Bavaria, I hear.”

Treville moistens his lips. “What do you want?”

“Ah, now we’re getting to it.” Rochefort turns and walks over to the chaise lounge, ignoring Richelieu’s bed for the moment. There’s just enough space between the laid-out drawers with their array of toys for Rochefort to sit down. Surrounded by the evidence of Armand’s love for Jean, Rochefort undoes the ties on his breeches and exposes a rapidly hardening cock to the cool air of the room.

Treville stares at it. Something burns in the back of his eyes. Every fiber of his being revolts against what he knows is coming. Of all things, why does Rochefort have to demand _this_? Why does he have to demand it here, in this room, in this building, surrounded by these trappings? Why can’t he be content with using this hold over Treville to order him to stop interfering at court and leave the way clear for Rochefort’s political ambitions?

Understanding follows behind horror. Richelieu had always wanted to build. Rochefort wants to destroy. And nothing will give the Comte more pleasure than specifically destroying what Richelieu had built. France. Louis. And Treville.

“Kneel, slut,” Rochefort orders. “You don’t stand in the presence of your betters, either.”

For a moment Treville rebels. Only a moment. Then he thinks of everything he stands to lose through his defiance.

 _You have the most dangerous part,_ Richelieu had said. _They will attack you. They will try to destroy you. And you will be unable to fight back. You must let them appear to succeed._

What happens to Treville is immaterial. If it were only himself, he’d tell Rochefort to publish and be damned. He’d rather die than give Rochefort the parts of himself that properly belong to Richelieu.

But the fallout wouldn’t be contained to Treville. His Musketeers, at least, would survive without him. But Richelieu – Louis – France –

He kneels.

“Good slut,” Rochefort purrs. Treville shivers in revulsion. From Armand there’s nothing he loves more than praise. Armand’s pleasure is Jean’s pleasure. From Rochefort it makes Treville feel dirty. Cheap. Degraded.

“Now crawl over here and suck my cock,” Rochefort adds. “Let’s see what convinced the Cardinal to keep you around for all those years.”

Treville’s crawled through mud and dirt and worse on the battlefield. Somehow crawling over this luxurious carpet is harder. The pile is thick and soft under his knees. Armand had chosen it specially with kneeling in mind. Jean had been flattered and pleased at this mark of consideration, though Armand had always said consideration is no more than Armand’s duty and Jean’s due. Treville wishes, now, that Armand had been less considerate. He feels as if he’s dragging. As if each crawling step takes more effort than lifting his sword-arm at the end of a long battle.

This _is_ a battle, and no mistake.

Rochefort is breathing faster by the time Treville reaches him. His cock is bone-hard, the sort of hardness that only comes with true arousal, mind and body. Rochefort gets off on this. He likes seeing Treville crawl. Treville can’t help the shudder of revulsion, nor the moment of hesitation as he kneels between Rochefort’s spread knees.

“Get on with it,” Rochefort says impatiently. He reaches out and grabs Treville by the hair before Treville can flinch.

Rochefort’s first tug ends with Treville’s nose slamming into Rochefort’s thigh. It would be funny if it weren’t so awful. Rochefort tries to correct and drags Treville’s cheek down his cock. The trail of wetness this leaves behind is somehow even more humiliating than the moment when Rochefort finally gets the angle right and shoves deep into Treville’s mouth.

If Treville still had a gag reflex, this would be a problem, but that had been gone long before he’d come into Armand’s keeping. Rochefort is long enough that the head of his cock bumps against the back of Treville’s throat with each thrust. Fortunately, Rochefort’s not that thick around. It makes breathing easier.

Rochefort doesn’t let go, but once he’s got Treville’s mouth on his cock he stops moving and leans back, clearly expecting Treville to do all the work. Treville closes his eyes and tries to push away all the obvious differences, searching for the headspace that will let him perform this task with some of his usual skill. The idea of pleasing Rochefort is revolting, but it’s also the only choice he has left.

He doesn’t do a good job of it. Treville knows it, even as he dutifully bobs his head up and down and sucks and swipes with his tongue. He doesn’t even know if Rochefort likes his balls played with. It doesn’t matter. Treville needs both his hands on Rochefort’s thighs to maintain balance.

Treville tries to convince himself that Rochefort will be satisfied with this. That Treville’s mouth alone will sate his desire to destroy. That after this Rochefort will leave Treville in peace.

He knows better. But the fantasy buoys him until Rochefort comes down his throat.

“Acceptable,” Rochefort says consideringly. “We’ll work on that. For now, take off your shirt and lie down on the bed.”

Treville looks up. White strands still stain his lips. He refuses to lick them clean.

Rochefort is stroking the handle of the tawse again.

“Quickly, slut,” Rochefort adds mildly. “I’m going to conduct a little experiment. I’ve never done this to a soldier before. I’m very interested to discover exactly how much you can take.” 


End file.
